


Three Happily Ever Afters Lived by Harry Bright

by misura



Category: Mamma Mia! (2008)
Genre: Multi, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 13:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11647158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: alas, I couldn't pick just one so I went for all of them.





	Three Happily Ever Afters Lived by Harry Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shorina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shorina/gifts).



> alas, I couldn't pick just one so I went for all of them.

.01

Harry used to speak a little Greek, just enough to get by, but then, he also used to speak a bit of French, a bit of German, a bit of Dutch and Italian and Indonesian and Spanish.

Now, the only thing he knows how to politely greet someone in English or Japanese.

It's not a total disaster, as most people on the island do seem to speak English - rather well, in fact, which should be quite gratifying and putting him at ease. He's not sure why it doesn't, except maybe that it's always made him a bit nervous, to not know what people are talking about.

Back home, he's always played it safe. Pick a specific night of the week, go to a specific bar, look for a specific type of person. Someone quiet, well-spoken. A little shy. Someone most people wouldn't spare a second glance, assuming they'd notice them at all in the first place.

Someone just like himself, in other words.

Petros is nothing like that at all. Petros is like the sun, putting the rest of the world in orbit around him. He's golden and brash and spontaneous, and Harry doesn't have the first clue why someone like Petros would sit down and waste his time talking to someone like Harry.

(And Harry keeps telling himself that it is only that: talking. If Harry feels that it might be something more, if he feels like Petros is flirting with him, then that can only be his imagination, turning something perfectly friendly and polite into something he only _wants_ to be true.)

(He wants it pretty badly, though. The drinks don't help, even though Harry knows to pace himself, to keep a clear head in order to stop himself from saying something regrettable, like how pretty Petros' eyes are, or how he could lose himself forever in the way they light up when Petros smiles, which is all the time, or how he wants to keep looking at the way Petros' mouth shapes words.)

And then someone walks by, calling something in Greek, and Petros yells something unintelligible back, smiling and putting his hand on Harry's, and Harry thinks _oh_ because maybe, just maybe, all of this is exactly what it feels like. Maybe this is what he's come here for, even if he had no idea.

One last chance at getting everything right, at being spontaneous and taking a chance at getting his heart broken in exchange for a chance at giving it away to someone who'll treat it tenderly.

 

.02

"First and last girl, huh?" Donna says, and she's still all of that.

Age is just a number after all. It's not as if Harry hasn't gotten older, too, even if in his case, he knows he's given up both more and less of whom he used to be.

He still knows how to play the guitar, even if he rarely finds people he wants to play it for nowadays.

He's forgotten what it's like to be carefree, adventurous, _spontaneous_. He's relearning it, though, or so he likes to think. Some things aren't like riding a bike.

"So I guess I was your big straight experiment or something," Donna says, sounding a bit bemused.

"Never that," Harry says. He'd like to think that he wouldn't be feeling the way he feels, thinking the way he thinks, if she'd gotten married last night. "You were simply ... unique. I've never met anyone quite like you."

"Couldn't you say the same thing about everyone, though?" Donna shrugs, sitting down. Her hair is a little mussed.

"Maybe." Harry thinks that there are probably a lot of people just like him. Their only disadvantage is that they've never met Donna, that they've never gotten a wake-up call from a bloke in a boat about all the things you get cut off from when you stop allowing yourself to be spontaneous. "Any regrets?"

"About last night?" Donna sighs. "It was a summer fling, Harry. Years and years ago. I'm not going to marry a guy just because younger me was nuts about him."

"In your case, I find it hard to believe there is such a thing as a 'younger you'," Harry says, because it's true. She hasn't changed at all.

"You wouldn't say that if you saw me naked," Donna says.

_Can I?_ Harry doesn't ask. It would be a little too spontaneous, he decides. He doesn't want to appear as if he's presuming too much, as if he's mistaking this conversation, this encounter for something it's not. _It was a summer fling, Harry._ What goes for Sam must go for all of them.

Donna reaches out to grab his hand. He imagines grasping her other hand and kissing her.

"Come on, Head Banger. I practically gave you that one, didn't I?"

"I thought - " Harry says, the train of his thought derailing as she does what he's only imagined. "You - the villa - investment opportunities."

"You used to say much cuter things," Donna leans back and laughs, sunshine in her eyes.

Harry gives up. "I apologize. I'm afraid I'm woefully out of practice."

"Well, now," Donna says. "Got any idea how we can get you back in shape again?"

 

.03

He wakes to the familiar sound of dogs, barking, and for a moment, he might almost think that he's back home, in London, same old life, same old boring Harry.

Then the ship heaves, shattering the illusion. Leaving him with the wonder of reality.

Bill's already up and about, making breakfast. The dogs seem to like him, which is good, even if it makes Harry feel a little irrationally jealous sometimes.

He's still a bit worried, he supposes, about this thing not working out. It's too far out of his experience, entirely out of his control. He has no idea what to expect any given day to bring, or even where they're going, even if Bill is happy to spout names and coordinates at him, and share anecdotes about funny things that happened last time he visited that didn't make it into the books.

Harry's used to planning ahead, to consulting his day planner and knowing exactly where to show up, what to wear, which subjects to make small talk about, and which to avoid bringing up.

"Morning, sleepyhead." Bill grins. Lucy barks. Kipper just yawns, as if the arrival of his human dad is only mildly interesting. "Sleep well?"

"Very well," Harry says. His stomach rumbles. That's something, he supposes; he'd been just a little bit worried about getting seasick. "Felt like a rather short night, though."

"Aye, well, this part of the world, that happens," Bill says. He's wearing his favorite apron, the one that says something obscene in a language Harry can't read. "Wait till we get to some place where the night lasts twice as long as the day. Gets a bit chilly sometimes, mind."

"I can imagine." Harry can also imagine what he and Bill might do to keep warm. It's a nice image, if a bit too early in the morning to be thinking about that sort of thing.

"Bet you can." Bill grins. "Pity I can't use any of it for my next book. That'd be something, eh?"

" 'Two Blokes in a Boat'."

"To say nothing of the dogs."

Harry accepts a plate full of things he's never eaten before. "Thank you."

"Welcome," Bill says. "It's just - it's nice, you know? A bit of company. Not just at night, but by day, too. Even if you still can't tie a knot worth a damn."


End file.
